


alone in your room

by Chiomi



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 22:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chiomi/pseuds/Chiomi
Summary: Five times the Sheriff was wrong about what he thought was going on in Stiles' room and one time he was right.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 44
Kudos: 1228





	alone in your room

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Crimsonclad's tumblr post](https://crimsonclad.tumblr.com/post/75500514556/since-i-started-reading-teen-wolf-fic-i-have-read) of yore. Set whenever makes you happiest, with whoever you want to be alive and part of the pack. There is no sadness here. Grad school is hard and I wanted something from when Teen Wolf filled me with joy.
> 
> Tyvm to Alexis for the beta.

#  One

Stiles expects some kind of drama if his dad ever finds Derek in his room - former criminal, center of a lot of drama, and full grown adult man. But he’s wrong. When Derek drags himself through Stiles’ open window and collapses on the floor, Stiles is startled into swearing loudly, then freezes, eyes on Derek. He gestures furiously downstairs even as the stairs start to creak. 

“Stiles? Is everything okay?” The Sheriff pops his head around Stiles’ doorway, and Stiles can see by the way he’s holding himself that he’s got a gun in his hand out of view. Stiles can’t say he blames him - Beacon Hills has gotten really weird. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the way his dad’s face loses some of its tension when he spots Derek.

“Uh,” Stiles says, eruditely.

“It’d be a lot easier on my nerves if you used the door, son,” the Sheriff says.

“I’ll. I’ll keep that in mind, sir,” Derek says, still sprawled awkwardly on the floor. From the way he’s sitting, Stiles suspects that he’s injured and probably bleeding.

The Sheriff nods, seemingly satisfied, and heads back downstairs.

Stiles is baffled, but he doesn’t have time for that: it turns out Derek is in fact bleeding all over and poisoned with wolfsbane and it’s kind of a problem.

\--

There isn’t even an awkward conversation the next morning: the Sheriff’s on an early shift. And then Stiles is out dealing with the people who’d shot Derek, so he doesn’t even see his dad for a couple days other than dropping off his dinner once at the station. The next time they see each other at home, they’re passing in the hall as Stiles is heading to school. His dad gently clasps his shoulder and says, “I know there are some complications, but if he’s not willing to be seen with you in public, that’s a red flag.”

Stiles has no idea what he’s talking about, but he’s pretty sure he has a pop quiz first period. He doesn’t have time to figure it out. “Love you, Dad. See you tonight.”

#  Two

When Derek needs to come over because Stiles has stockpiled all of the reference books, he uses the front door. The gesture is wasted, though, because the Sheriff is on shift. It’s not like the department is ever fully staffed these days. Stiles just judges him silently until Derek shrugs and gestures impatiently upstairs. They split up the books, then Derek appropriates Stiles’ desk while Stiles sprawls on the floor, leaning against the bed. Derek picks up the mug Stiles had left on the desk and sniffs it suspiciously. “What on Earth is in this? It smells like weird magic.”

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair. He doesn’t super want to talk about it, but there’s enough weird magic around that it’s worth being clear that this is on purpose and of his own volition. “My Adderall doesn’t last long enough for these late-night research sessions if I’m not abusing it, so I talked to Deaton. He’s got me enchanting it myself, so the results are kind of variable, but it’s green tea for basic caffeinated focus with some, like, infused spider orphys for skill and ginkgo biloba for mental acuity. Sometimes I get some extra ability to decide what I focus on, sometimes I get nothing. This batch seems mostly to be working, though nothing works as well as amphetamines.”

“Deaton’s actually been sharing his secrets?”

“Meh,” Stiles says. “Not quickly.”

Derek sighs and looks down at the book in his hands. “Nothing’s ever as quick as it needs to be.”

Stung, Stiles snaps, “I’m doing my best, okay?” He’s been putting in long hours on trying to be better, do better, keep people from dying. 

Derek winces. “Not what I meant. I know you’re doing your best, and I appreciate it. It just . . . seemed a lot easier for her, when my mom cleaned up problems.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. He knows from dead moms. It soothes some of the hurt of not being enough, of inevitably not being enough for anyone.

Downstairs, the door slams. “I’m home!”

“Hi, Dad,” Stiles calls down, and frantically eyes the window. His dad may know now, but he doesn’t need to know everything.

Derek shrugs helplessly at him: they both know the window’s not open wide enough for him to get out, and that it squeaks on opening. He looks down, though, sweeping over his fully clad and non-bleeding form that isn’t doing anything scandalous, then raises his eyebrows at Stiles.

He has to concede the point, and tilts his head to acknowledge it. His dad hadn’t freaked out last time, at least. Maybe he won’t this time, either.

The Sheriff looks in on his way to his room, which makes Stiles curse for a moment that he left the door open. The Sheriff just nods, though, not seeming completely taken aback, and proceeds to his room. A few minutes later he’s back, in sweats, and actually stops in the doorway. “You boys hungry?”

“I could eat,” Stiles says cautiously.

“Right,” the Sheriff says. “Perpetually, of course. Well, I’ll have something in about half an hour.” He pauses, then slaps the doorframe, like he’s punctuating the discussion. “Keep it clean.”

Stiles gapes at his retreating back as he heads downstairs, then turns to face Derek, ‘what the fuck?’ written as large across his features as he can manage. What did his dad think they were doing up here? There had been zero bloodshed! There was nothing to keep clean, or clean up, because no one had bled on anything in days. Stiles is behaving the least suspiciously he has in weeks, other than reading a dusty old hardcover titled - okay, titled  _ Ravens: Omen and Murder _ , which is admittedly kind of suspicious. But the point is: not suspicious! His dad has no reason to comment.

Derek doesn’t provide any answers, just shrugs and looks pointedly back at his book.

There’s nothing specific, but Stiles has a suspicion that Derek understood different subtext than Stiles had. He eyes Derek narrowly, but Derek refuses to look up. The only outward sign that Derek’s holding back are that his ears have gone a little pink. He won’t look up, though, so Stiles gives up and goes back to reading his book until his dad yells that food is ready.

It’s an awkward meal, but they’ve had worse, and his dad is being weirdly polite to Derek, who’s being weirdly polite back. Stiles doesn’t get it, and keeps watching like it’s a tennis match, trying to figure it out.

He doesn’t get to dwell, though: when they’re done, his dad goes to bed and he and Derek clean up. They’re halfway through the dishes when Derek gets a text. “The Preserve. Scott was attacked.”

“Fuck,” Stiles says, resigned. “I’ll get my baseball bat.”

He gets home in time for a shower before school, but that’s about it. The day sucks, so he strips down and crawls his bruised ass into bed as soon as he gets home and sleeps solidly through the night for the first time in ages.

\--

In the morning, his dad leans with carefully calculated nonchalance next to the coffeemaker, and Stiles is incredibly nervous. “Good morning,” he says, seeing that as his most neutral opening gambit.

“You know, Stiles,” the Sheriff says, then pauses to eye his coffee. It’s not particularly a comfort that he doesn’t want to be having this conversation either. “Stiles, no matter who you spend time with, I just want to know that you can be good to each other. Care about each other’s happiness and safety.”

Stiles does a fast mental catalog of bruises from the night before, because there was a particular stress in that sentence. Nothing should be visible. As usual, it’s his back that takes the brunt of it from being shoved into things. But - fuck. He hadn’t slept in a shirt. “I’m fine!” he yelps. “Just - werewolf stuff. Everyone’s fine now.”

“Mm,” his dad says, then looks out the window, like he, too, wants to be far away from this conversation. Stiles agrees: this is a terrible conversation.

#  Three

The third time the Sheriff finds Derek in Stiles’ room, no one is bleeding, but no one is researching either. Stiles is sprawled on his bed, waiting for the room to stop wavering in and out of reality. Derek is keeping an eye on him, because he’s the only one without commitments in the morning or parents who might wonder. Derek’s shirtless because the spell attempt that had backfired so badly on Stiles had also turned his shirt into three identical smaller shirts, and he hasn’t wanted to ditch Stiles long enough to get a spare from his car.

The Sheriff comes in around midnight and doesn’t call up; Stiles only has a desk light on, because brighter light made the room spin faster, so the house probably looked dark from the outside. The Sheriff looks in the doorway on his way past, seemingly out of habit, and then stops, one foot still slightly in the air.

“Derek,” he says levelly, and Derek starts, sitting up straighter in the chair and wrenching his gaze from Stiles.

“Sir,” he says.

“Hi, Dad,” Stiles says, sounding way drunker than he expected to.

The Sheriff sighs. “Are you drinking water?”

“Derek made me drink so much water,” Stiles says, slightly baffled. “I don’t know why so much water.” He feels kind of like he’s floating, with the spinning. At least he doesn’t feel like he’s floating on water. He’s floating on his bed. It’s better; he doesn’t like deep water much anymore. Water’s too scary.

The Sheriff looks at Derek, and Derek shrugs, which draws attention to the way the muscles move under his skin in the low light. The Sheriff sighs more deeply. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

\--

“Is Derek buying you alcohol?” is how the Sheriff starts the next morning.

Stiles blinks, still feeling kind of stupid. “No? He wouldn’t.” He’s asked: Derek just stares at him. Stiles can sort of see the point: he and Lydia and Allison are the only ones who can get drunk at all, and they make bad decisions when they’re drunk. Plus they tend to fall over instead of fighting or running away if it comes up.

His dad nods slowly. “Okay. So he was just . . . ”

“Making sure I was okay.” No way he’s telling his dad that it was magic backlash. Magic’s something he can do, and he’s not having his dad try to talk him out of it.

“Okay. I’m glad he . . . he was just there making sure you were okay?”

Stiles narrows his eyes at his dad, trying to work out why he sounds so tentative. What else would Derek have been doing? “He made me drink a lot of water and take some Advil before I went to sleep. It was nice of him.”

“Right. Well, as long as you’re not doing anything rash. I’m . . . I’m glad he has your back like that.”

#  Four

The magic gets easier. Derek starts bringing Stiles more and different books on magic, ones Deaton emphatically wouldn’t approve of. Deaton thinks Stiles needs to narrow in and focus on one thing at a time, but he doesn’t quite recognize how everything’s always happening at once. Stiles doesn’t have the luxury of focus, and anyway he’s not built for it. Derek’s just brought over another stack of books, which smells faintly of smoke and mildew. Stiles doesn’t ask why it smells like that - if he can smell it it must be painfully acute to Derek, and fire isn’t something he wants to bring up. He grabs the top half of the stack and hands it back. “Hey, can you look for bone wards in these books? Very specifically bone, if Lydia’s accurate.”

The corner of Derek’s mouth quirks up. “She’d hate you for questioning her.”

“She didn’t even lick it,” Stiles complains. “What’s the point in knowing how to tell bone from plastic or stone if you won’t even do it?”

“Some people might consider it gross to lick bone,” Derek says, and his voice is laced with amusement.

There are just . . . there are too many dick joke opportunities there. It’s low-hanging fruit such that Stiles doesn’t even know which way to go with it. He just looks at Derek and says, “Dude.”

Derek has a ridiculously expressive face: he obviously knows what he’s done, and is both amused and judging Stiles. 

Stiles flops back on his bed, letting his current book thud to his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“Uh-huh,” Derek says. He takes off his jacket and drapes it neatly over the back of the chair, ready to settle in for the long haul. And it probably will be a long haul: if the latest nonsense on the edge of the Preserve was easy to find information on, Stiles would already have it. Well, for a given value of having: he’d know to within a couple of books where to find the relevant information. But their world keeps getting more complicated as the Nemeton draws in new and stranger bullshit.

Stiles sighs, sits back up, and gets to work. He’s gotten enough better at his magic tea that he’s in the zone and badly startled when his dad knocks on the door almost an hour later.

“Boys?”

What? Why does he - oh, right, Derek had used the door, as ordered a couple months ago. His dad would have seen him. “Yeah?”

“I have hot cocoa,” he says. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah?” Stiles says, baffled.

The door opens slowly, then more quickly, and his dad walks in, bearing mugs. He nods at Derek, who quickly stands and moves his stack of books to make room on the desk for a mug. He’s acting kind of weird, though it’s not like that’s new. Probably the whole law enforcement not wanting to arrest him for murder thing is still surprising. Whatever, he’ll get used to it eventually, as long as the whole pack doesn’t end up seen at more crime scenes than usual. 

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says, making grabby hands at the mugs. His dad rolls his eyes fondly, then hands one over.

“Thank you, sir,” Derek says, his face stuck in the guarded neutrality Stiles thinks he must practice in the mirror.

“You’re welcome,” he says, and turns to leave. He hesitates at the door. “You’re good boys.” He doesn’t leave. “I . . . “ he trails off, seeming like he’s struggling to articulate something. “It’s good you both like to read,” he says awkwardly, not looking at them, then taps his knuckles on the doorway like even he is frustrated with saying something that inane. “Good night.”

He closes the door behind himself, letting Stiles make ‘what the fuck’ faces at Derek in peace. Belatedly, still confused, Stiles shouts “Love you, Dad!” More quietly, he says to Derek, “That was weird, right? Like, more than usual? Do you think something’s, like, mind-controlling him?”

Derek looks down at his cocoa and shrugs. Okay, yeah, he has a point. If Derek can’t smell poison then there’s probably no mind-control. It’s not like any of the mind-control they’ve had has been so benign as this. He sighs. “Right. Bone wards.”

#  Five

They have progressed through the sad scorched family library and into books with barcodes on the first inside page and an inexplicable smell of sage, and they still don’t know what’s set up near the Preserve this time. Stiles is starting to get kind of cranky about it. Sure, yeah, whatever, the fuckery is bad and fighting evil fills him with righteous anger or some emotion like that, but not being able to find a good source of information is a petty normal problem. So Stiles is having petty normal feelings about it.

They’ve settled in for another night of fruitlessness and dead-end leads when Derek raises his head unexpectedly. “I thought your dad was on shift tonight.”

“Yeah, he’s on ‘til six,” Stiles says absently. It takes him another second. “Wait, that was his car, wasn’t it?”

“Yep,” Derek says, starting to get a little grim around the edges.

The door opens downstairs, and the Sheriff stomps up the stairs. Stiles half expects him to come bursting in, but he stops and knocks. “Stiles?”

“Yeah? Dad, why aren’t you at work?”

The Sheriff opens the door and glares sort of balefully at everything. “Ran into Melissa McCall when I was taking a statement at the ER. She told me to make sure you boys were being safe. I wish you’d talk to me, but I can still listen to good advice,” he says grimly. Then, staring directly at Derek, he puts a box of condoms down on the desk.

Stiles feels like he’s having an out-of-body experience. What the fuck. What the fuck!? What does he think - oh.  _ Oh.  _ A strangled noise makes it out of Stiles’ throat without any conscious volition. He has to - why does Derek look so stricken? This is the worst possible thing. Stiles has seen dead bodies and been beaten and possessed and hunted, and this is literally the worst thing that has ever happened to him. He is going to die of mortification. “Dad! Downstairs. I - for fuck’s sake. Please.”

“Language,” his dad says in stubborn reflex.

Stiles squawks indignantly as he gets to his feet, and gestures broadly at everything. He ushers his dad out of the room, then turns to Derek. He points at his ears, then stabs that finger at Derek. Derek should absolutely tune out the painfully awkward conversation that’s about to happen, and Stiles will never forgive him for listening. Derek rolls his eyes so hard his whole body moves, then he jerks his head to indicate that Stiles should follow his dad. Stiles glares narrowly one last time for emphasis, then does as he’s told, closing the door behind him. It still probably won’t help, but he’s trying, dammit. He clatters down the stairs after his dad, finding him in the kitchen. “What the hell was that?”

His dad crosses his arms. “Are you trying to tell me you’re not dating Derek?”

“We’re trying to figure out what’s in the Preserve! Researching monsters! It’s like our thing!”

His dad sighs and relaxes into exasperation. “It’s only ever the two of you! Alone! In your room. At night. And it’s been going on a lot longer than whatever’s currently holed up on Kennewick.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something and realizes only when he’s been standing that way a minute that he doesn’t have any words. “It’s - I mean. There’s always  _ something.  _ You know what it’s like here.” But that’s not the point. Stiles looks away, and finds himself crossing his arms defensively and lowering his voice as if there’s any way Derek won’t hear. “He doesn’t like me like that.”

His dad leans back against the counter. “You sure about that, son?”

“Have you seen him,” Stiles hisses back, gesturing vaguely at the stairs. “He is  _ profoundly _ out of my league. He’s out of everyone’s league.”

“So Melissa -”

“Was probably talking about Scott getting mildly gnawed on a couple days ago, not my imaginary sex life, though thanks, I guess, for being chill about it?”

“Wait, Scott was injured badly enough to need Melissa?” His dad is veering out of dad territory and into Sheriff On The Hellmouth territory, straightening up and finally seeming to shift focus.

Sadly, this particular incident is a non-starter: they’ve been trying to play this smart and not get anyone killed before they know what they’re up against. “No, he was fine, he just didn’t do his laundry fast enough.”

“So you and Derek are . . . continuing to spend large chunks of your free time together. Alone. In your room. For a non-lethal threat. And it’s platonic?”

God, Stiles wishes the way his dad made it sound was how it actually was. He closes his arms tighter around himself and looks away. “You’re making this harder than it has to be. No matter -” No, no talking about his feelings, Derek can hear. “It’s not like that. Derek just - he’s nice. He doesn’t want me stuck doing this by myself.” Shit. Derek could also hear how defeated Stiles had sounded. This is going to suck.

His dad runs a hand over his face. “I should get back to work.”

“Okay. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Take care . . . take care of yourself. Let Derek know I’m sorry for any awkwardness?”

Stiles manages a wry half-smile. “Sure.”

He locks up after his dad and goes upstairs to face his inevitable doom.

#  Plus One

Derek’s still in Stiles’ room, which is the first surprise.

Okay. How’s he going to play this? Who’s he kidding, there’s only one way he was ever going to play this. “Okay! So that was awkward. But now we can get back to work. We’ve definitely ruled out spriggan at this point, right? Watch it be something new completely and we’ve wasted all this time because we’re the only ones who’ve ever faced this.”

“Stiles,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles spreads his arms. What is there to say on the subject? They both know it’s never going to happen and that Stiles will just pine until it goes away. Talking about it won’t make that better, it’ll just make Stiles feel like a creep.

Derek stands, so they’re eye to eye and closer than they were. The room feels too small. Stiles looks away but can’t keep his gaze fixed anywhere. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. Derek takes a step forward and raises his hand to Stiles’ cheek, fingers soft as dreaming as he guides Stiles to look at him. “No one else comes during research nights because they know this is the only time I get alone with you.”

“It’s because they’re lazy ass -” Stiles blinks. “What?”

Derek laughs like sunlight, and crowds Stiles without touching any more of him than his cheek. Stiles doesn’t back away, because he doesn’t back down from anything. Obfuscate and redirect, yeah, but running away never did him any good. Derek’s close enough that Stiles can feel the heat rolling off him as he says. “I - I forget, sometimes, that you don’t have the same senses. And I’d thought Scott would have told you.”

He leans his forehead against Stiles’. “You think  _ I’m _ out of  _ your _ league? You’re like lightning - you’re like the whole storm, bottled up and beautiful. I thought you didn’t -”

What. “What?” Stiles croaks out, voice unexpectedly wrecked. It’s the feelings. He is not actually physically built for processing feelings. He reaches up and puts his hand on the side of Derek’s neck, then remembers that that’s more intimate on a wolf and slides his hand into Derek’s hair. Which probably isn’t better, but Stiles needs something to hold onto, something to anchor himself in the moment. This doesn’t feel real, feels like it’s going to slip through his fingers. He grips Derek’s hair and holds him to him, because this can’t slip away. “No, I -  _ fuck _ .”

Derek’s voice is quiet and as soft as Stiles has ever heard it as he asks, “Can I kiss you?” 

“Please,” Stiles says fervently. 

Derek’s lips are soft and his mouth is still a question when he presses it to Stiles’. It isn’t how Stiles has ever dreamed it, which lets him relax into Derek and sway into his body. He kisses Derek back just as soft, just as gentle, because this moment feels fragile. Eventually they part to breathe, and Stiles opens eyes he hadn’t noticed drift closed.

“Does this mean our study dates can be way more euphemistic now?”

Derek laughs, and kisses him again.


End file.
